Distractions
by ladyoftheknightley
Summary: Fleur has a very, very important question to ask Bill. Drabble, complete, set during OotP.


**Disclaimer: **Bill, Fleur and the rest belong to JKR much to my chagrin, and this was a prompt I found (where else?) on tumblr: 'I'm going to need you to put on some underwear before you say anything else'. Hope you enjoy where this went!

* * *

She says it first as they lie on top of the sheets, heaving and undone, and he doesn't turn his head at all, just looks at her out of the corner of his eyes. "I'm going to need you to put on some underwear before you say anything else," he says.

She glares, but he is unmoved, so she sighs and yanks the white bedsheet out from under him and drapes it over herself like some sort of Ancient Greek toga. Only, she supposes, Ancient Greek women probably didn't leave one entire leg exposed, or drape it so casually over their fronts that one slight movement would leave their chests on display. Or maybe they did. She thinks that Ancient Greek women probably weren't stupid, after all.

She repeats her request. This time, he does turn his whole, gloriously naked, body to look at her and she thinks it's so terribly unfair that she has to cover up when he does not. But this is serious, and she refuses to be distracted. Much.

"No," he says simply, and turns away again.

"Bill!"

"_Fleur_."

"I want to—"

"No."

"You cannot stop—"

"No."

"It ees not fair if—"

"No, I can't stop you," he says, facing her again. "But I can do my damndest to try. I do not want you to join the Order."

"_Why_?" she explodes.

"Because," he says patiently. "It's far too dangerous."

"I 'ave faced danger before," she says. "I was good at it!"

"In some school tournament," he says, and she flinches at his dismissive tone. "Forgive me if I don't think that makes you wholly prepared to face the real world."

She snarls something at him in French, which he doesn't understand but clearly gets the gist of. "I forget," she says, switching back to English. "You, who are so much older zhan me, so much more _experienced_, you must know of everything about zhe danger!" She knows that, in her anger, her accent is getting thicker and her grammar worse, and that he is struggling to understand her, but she finds herself spitefully glad. "Your age means, I zhink, zhat you 'ave 'ad more time to sit the wrong way on a broomstick so it ees now stuck up your—"

"Why do you even want to join, anyway?" he asks languidly.

"Do you want a list?" she asks, glaring.

"If you have one."

"_Fine_." She rolls over onto her stomach, and holds up a hand. "Cedric Diggory was a friend of mine and was very kind to a silly French schoolgirl. 'E did not 'ave to be, and unlike your silly newspapers, I know how 'e died."

"Second," she adds, ticking it off on her fingers, "Harry Potter ees also very kind to me and saves my sister. I would wish to 'elp him where I can."

"_Troisième_," she continues, and another finger comes up, "If nothing ees done 'ere, zhat man will come to France next, and I will 'ave to fight there. I do not think that 'e will be liking the half-breed Veelas, _non_? Me or my mother or my baby sister—we should all be dead. Shall I continue?"

"Please do," Bill says coolly.

"Fine," she says, "fourthly, I was taught of what 'appened before in our _histoire moderne_ classes; I know what he does. I am...not the best person, but I should like to 'ope zhat if again he comes back, I would be good enough to stop and fight against him."

"Is that all?" he asks.

"Yes," she says, defiantly. It is all true, but the main reason—_him_—she's not going to share. At least not right now.

"Huh," he says. He traces circles on her body with his fingertips. She lets him for a moment, before smacking his hands away, and he blinks, surprised.

"You will not touch me," she says haughtily, "whilst you will treat me like this."

"Like what?"

"Like I am..._less_ than you," she says. She tucks the sheet around herself more securely now, really covering her body.

"I don't think you're less than me," he says seriously, and his eyes are so beautiful that it takes all she has not to melt. "I think you are more than I will ever be. But I do _not_ want you to join the Order. But I don't think I can stop you, can I?"

"You could 'ave asked me," she points out.

"But you wouldn't have, even if I'd begged you, would you?" he asks.

Fleur closes her eyes. "No. But I will not be ordered around or told what to do."

"I'm sorry," he says. "Fleur. _Fleur_." She opens her eyes again and stares back at him. "I am sorry."

She purses her lips. "I know," she murmurs.

"I don't want you getting hurt," he says. "How could I live with myself if something happened to you? If the worst happened—how could I live without you?"

"And yet you think zhat I do not 'ave the right to those feelings about you?" she asks, still not fully ready to forgive him.

"I understand," he says, "but I can't leave the organisation."

"I know," she says. "I know. So you 'ave to let me join, too. It ees not fair for one of us to 'ave all the worry."

"What if you die, Fleur?" he asks. He reaches towards her, but remembers her demand and lets his hand fall between them. "What then? What do I say to you parents? Your sister? How do _I_ carry on?"

She flinches, but her gaze is strong as she meets his eye. "I will not die," she says, with the confidence of youth—but he is old enough to remember his Uncles Fabian and Gideon.

"You—"

"I will not die," she repeats. "You will not let me. And I won't let you."

He sighs. He will not win this. "I will speak to the people in charge. It may take some time, though. And they might not deem it necessary," he warns. This last part is a lie—the Order are desperate for as many people as they can trust to join. But not her. They don't need her. Not yet. Maybe, if he's really lucky, he'll persuade Moody of that.

She smiles, but doesn't gloat. "Thank you."

"Really, you're not meant to know anything," he says. "About the Order, I mean. It's, you know, top secret. You're not supposed to have any idea we exist."

"You would make a terrible spy," she says.

"I would," he says, giving a tiny snort. "Good job this isn't for real then, eh?"

He looks so heartbroken that she thinks she would throw herself off a broomstick if it would make him feel better. "Maybe I'm just very clever," she offers.

He meets her gaze again. "There's no doubt about that."

She allows herself a tiny smirk. "Bill."

"Yes?"

"I love you." At this, he really does smile.

After a moment's pause, he asks, "So does that mean I'm allowed to touch you again?" He's smirking at her now, quirking one eyebrow in a way that has her quivering for his touch, ready to beg him for anything he'll give her. He flexes his fingers, draws his hand slowly across the sheet until it rests level with her stomach. "Hmm?"

He knows it too, the bastard.

"I suppose so," she says haughtily, mustering every scrap of dignity she has left. He grins wickedly at her and his hand drifts achingly slowly further and further down the sheet. She's practically whimpering, and he hasn't so much has laid a fingertip on her...then he reaches out, and grabs her kneecap.

"Not _there_!" she explodes, and he bursts into peals of laughter as she sulks, all dignity forgotten.

"Perhaps I need a refresher?" he says. She shuts him up by kissing him, already guiding his hands into place. It's one course she's more than willing to teach.


End file.
